Danse Macabre
by wallyflower
Summary: Autobiographical, Land-locked fic about Harry Potter's early demise, from Hermione Granger's point of view. Harry lies in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing after the defeat of Voldemort, and Hermione goes to her best friend to be with him one last time.


**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created by J. K. Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. Also, many sentences are directly quoted and some ideas taken from Charlotte Brontë's Jane Eyre.

**Summary: **Autobiographical, Land-locked fic about Harry Potter's early demise, from Hermione's point of view. After the defeat of Voldemort on graduation night, Harry Potter lay in the Hospital wing, emotionally, physically and magically drained. Hermione had snuck out that night to be with him one last time, and at present muses on the subject of their friendship, his 'famous last words', and Harry's desperation to end it all.

**Author's Note:** Please tell me what you think in a review, whether good or bad, or if I should continue with the series—I had more chapters planned and already writ (thus the 'later years of my existence' bit in the first line), but since my laptop went berserk and will have to get a new hard drive, I don't think those will be coming soon. Also, there is no real 'shipping as of yet, even though there are slight H/H leanings, so 'shippers of every kind may read this without flinching or gushing too much. Constructive Criticism is most welcome. It gets a bit wordy, I warn you, since this is, after all, an homage to Charlotte Brontë, in true Heidi Tandy tradition.

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**Danse Macabre**

Dear reader, before you go on to peruse this account of the later years of my existence, I should like to introduce myself first.

You all know me; I am Hermione Granger, considered the cleverest witch of her year, the sole Ravenclaw in Gryffindor, best friend of the late Harry Potter. Yes, I grieve to say that he isnow that _late_ Harry Potter. Do not be impatient; I will tell you how this lamentable truth has come to be reality. I am known to the whole of the wizarding world as Miss Granger, the one female of the famous Gryffindor triumvirate that once sneaked about in the dark halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry under the famous green-eyed boy's Invisibility Cloak (an article now in my possession). I am proud of this reputation, though, despite what some may think. I am gratified to have had the opportunity of being _his _friend. I am delighted to have known Harry as more than a person that had (temporarily, as a baby, everlastingly as a teenager) spared the world of pain, had been the saviour of the whole magical world, but as a true companion. And a great friend he was, indeed—the greatest friend I could ever conceive. With the greatest fondness do I recall his memory. Not a better child had graced the earth: not a boy more innocent, yet more mature, had existed.

I am now scolding myself for not giving a proper introduction, it having been swayed by the grievous memories of my childhood best friend; but you shall get to know me better through the chapters of this long autobiography, and so it is not so great a loss.

I shall begin with the last days of our last year at Hogwarts. As many could perhaps imagine, the Dark Lord Voldemort (yes, I am not afraid to speak his name anymore) had attacked the school on the night of our graduation. I say this because He had always looked for dramatic entrances into the play that was our existence, like his attempt to extinguish Harry Potter in the third task of the Triwizard Tournament. All those times in the year he could have killed Harry… I did not ask Harry what rationale the Dark Lord had behind this feat, for I was always afraid of giving him further pain; he had suffered, endured enough for a lifetime of a hundred twelvemonths at the age of seventeen.

Perhaps that is why he had died that year.

As I said, Voldemort had attacked at the night of our graduation, the night in which the whole of Hogwarts School had watched, with astonished eyes, fearful hearts and open mouths, Harry slay the Dark Lord with magic that was greater than any idea of which I could ever produce. Before our eyes Voldemort fell, the frightened Death-Eaters fled, and Harry, overpowered by his own endowment, crumpled to his feet.

Even now it gives me great pain to write about those hours, those dark, painful hours in which I nearly went insane with grief. I have had my share of pain, I might say, but for most of this I might blame Harry and his damned heroics. I am angry with him for having died, for having left me without a true friend in the world or a reason to live, for in all those years at Hogwarts I felt I existed only to assist him. Now that he was gone, what was I to do? Of what use am I to the world?

Yet I cannot be truly chagrined at him, for in the process of giving me anguish he had given me my share of happiness. 'Even for me life had its gleams of sunshine'; such were Charlotte Bronte's words. I was happy to be of solace, assistance, and importance to so great a wizard, to so great a person.

With fondness and sadness I remember the days after our supposed graduation: we were made to stay there longer than at first obliged to because this imperative ceremony was delayed for very obvious reasons. No students had died the day before, this having been prevented by Harry, but many scholars were injured very badly indeed by those horrid Death-Eaters; needless to say Madame Pomfrey had her hands full for quite a while. Some, under the harshness of the curses they had received, died nevertheless the days after. They were buried quietly and quickly, though not without tears and compassion, the nature of the malady forbidding delay.

Ron Weasley and I, despite our worries for Harry's safety (he was among those students who were up in the infirmary), were in raptures. This was our firmest wish, our most fervent desire! No longer must we worry about our friend, for the Dark Lord was gone forever; the three of us could now go on existing without disturbance of the sort.

Oh, how very wrong we were.

The Headmaster Dumbledore would not let any of us see Harry, for he was 'in too delicate a condition', despite all our ardent desires to sit by my friend's side. He did not even admit Parvati and Lavender's flowers into the room, nor Ginny's card. I assumed that Harry had just exerted himself too much, for it was impossible to have yielded that much power without being at least a little exhausted. How I desired to grace him with a visit! But at the time, with my reliance on magical healing methods and the fact that he had survived countless attacks earlier, I was assured that it was all going to be fine. While death had come to be a frequent visitor at the school; while there was a gloom of fear within its walls, the bright summer sun shone over us, bringing with it the greenest grass, the most delightful blossoms, and _hope_.

Unfortunately the summer sun had no intention of making Harry well; indeed it seemed that when night shone in and the moon resumed its situation in the dark sky the sun took him away.

I recall having inquired of his condition before the said hour.

'How is Harry?'

The headmaster, with a look reminiscent of the one he wore in our tribute to Cedric Diggory, had told me; 'Very poorly.'

I was gratified that he did not prevaricate, but was definitely not indifferent to the answer he had given. In my desperation to see my ally, and in the fear I now endured at seeing the grieved, 'He-will-not-last-very-long' look in the Headmaster's eyes, I had decided to slip out and see him, despite all of the rules I would supposedly be breaking. I did not wish to admit it, nor did I make any effort to, but the truth that Harry was to die soon had been broken to me then. Not wishing to wake Ron to get the Invisibility Cloak I wrapped a shawl around my shoulders, slipped my shoes onto my feet, and made my way quietly up to the infirmary.

It was midnight, the witching hour. I suppose it was ironic to fear such a time rumoured to be of service to my own kind, but the darkness of the evening, and the shadows that danced in the halls under my candle, made my skin tingle and my brain think further of death and its gloominess.

At last the infirmary was within view; indisposed to hesitate, and full of impatient impulses, my feet hurried to the entrance and my hand went to the knob. I opened the door with the most silence I could, and treaded past it, which was opened slightly ajar to give you a view of the lightly snoring nurse, of Madame Pomfrey's office. I dreaded being discovered and sent back, for I felt I _must _see Harry—I must embrace him before he died—I must give him one last kiss, exchange with him one last word.

I was inside the infirmary now. Quickly my eye sought Harry, and feared to find death.

Close by Draco Malfoy's bed (I have long wondered why the authorities would wish to place Harry, in his dying hours, beside his known enemy's), and half-concealed by pure white curtains, was Harry's bed. I knew this to be so because on the other side of his crib was an empty one, a bed once occupied by Neville Longbottom, who had told me of where Harry's bed was and given a frightful account of my companion's progress. With trepidation I advanced, then paused by the bedside: my hand was on the curtain, but I preferred speaking before I withdrew it. I still recoiled at the dread of seeing a corpse.

'Harry!' I whispered softly, lest Malfoy wake up, witness me, and have me delivered back to the girls' dormitories; 'are you awake?'

I heard Harry stir himself, and was delighted to find him alive. He drew back the curtain, and I saw his face, pale, wasted, but still with the same countenance I had perceived so many times smiling at me. He looked so little changed that my fear, though not entirely gone, was lessened considerably.

'Hermione?' he asked in a meek, gentle voice, spectacle-less eyes blinking.

A tear rolled onto my cheek at hearing his so familiar voice and I instantly wiped it away, lest he saw me and be sad himself. I wanted his last hours to be as complacent as possible.

'It's me, Harry,' I whispered back, barely keeping from choking.

A smile curved his pink lips, and an invitation to come closer rolled out of them. Gratefully I hoisted myself up on his crib and kissed him affectionately on the cheek; his touch, his forehead was cold and his cheek both thin and chilly, but he smiled as of old.

'Get me my glasses, Mione,' said he, triggering another tear to trickle out of my eyes by his tender epithet; 'I want to see your face.'

Such an affectionate entreaty was not to be resisted. I reached over to his bedside table and possessed myself of his spectacles, slipping them onto his face. He blinked to help focus and let his eyes wander my countenance, as if memorising every detail to take the memory of my appearance to wherever he was going.

'Have I ever told you how lovely you are, Mione?' he asked with an uncharacteristically serene look upon his pale face.

Taken aback by this most unusual of praise, I was unable to form a reply. Then the force of such a comment was lessened by the dread in my heart, which was rather increased by seeing him say things he had never before even endeavoured to express; it was as if he was certain I would never see him again that he was saying all he had to now.

'What're you doing here Mione?' he asked, straying from the topic of my appearance. He glanced at his watch to confirm the time; it was the one I had repaired for him. 'It's twelve o'clock.'

'I came to see you, Harry,' I replied, forbidding myself to make my fears known.

'You came to say good-bye?'

I blinked in surprise; he had said this with no gloomy sentiment whatsoever. I neither confirmed nor denied his assumptions. While trying to devour my tears, a fit of coughing seized Harry; thankfully, it did not wake the nurse and the few other occupants of the infirmary. When it was over he lay for some time exhausted; then he whispered—

'You're cold—come lie down with me.'

There was no awkwardness in my acquiescence; time was too little for any resistance due to stupid male-to-female hesitations. I sat on the bed, feet outstretched before me; covering my chilled legs with his quilt and letting my back rest on an upright pillow and my hand caress his cheek. Eyes closed he put his hand on my waist and pulled me closer as a tender, friendly gesture: this time I was not able to control my tears. I nearly recoiled at the notion that his touch would never warm my skin again. Wishing that the dark would shroud my weeping from view I nestled closer to him. After a few minutes of comfortable silence, he resumed, still whispering—

'Thanks for coming to see me, Hermione.'

_How could I stay away?_ I was about to express my guilt that I had not brought Ron, for doubtless Harry's affection for him exceeded his for me; but Harry did not give me an opportunity to speak. He uttered words next that surprised me with their eloquence and expression.

His voice muffled by my breast he said, 'When I'm dead,' (here I recoiled at the mention of his near demise) 'Mione, I don't want you to lament: because _I _won't be grieving. Can you promise me you won't cry?'

I could not; indeed, for the entire world I could not. He might as well have commanded the fire, 'Do not burn!' or the night, 'Do not come!' How was it that he was asking me to not feel grief, remorse at the fact that I was never to see him, the best friend I have ever possessed, ever again? In my sentiments I was incapable of speaking.

He continued: 'we all have to die _someday_, you know. And, contrary to what you may think, it's not very painful at all to die, at least to die the way I'm dying. No one is going to miss me much; my only family are Muggles, and _they _won't miss me at all. In fact, they'd probably be glad.'

He did not sound the least bit bitter while articulating this statement; I assumed he did not want to hold anyone in contempt so that he would be easily admitted to heaven. I did not dwell on that, however.

'But Harry,' I cried, '_I'm _your family! _I'll _miss you!' I said this as if informing him of who would regret his expiration would convince him and the powers that chose to remove my best friend from earth that they would judge better by prolonging his existence. I cast around my mind for more. 'Think of the Weasleys, Harry! I thought you loved us,' said I, all reasonable logic fleeing from my grasp.

At that moment I was very angry with Harry, as I was for a very long time after his death. How could he ever think that I could live without him? How could he be so selfish as to think of only himself and all the misery he'd suffered for his entire life, and forget the tears he knew I would shed once he ceased to breathe?

_How could he want to leave me?_

Yet I knew, deep inside, that he was born to defeat the Dark Lord, and nothing else. He was not born to be friends with me, or to fill my life with warmth, or protect me, or dry my tears, and all those things he'd done in our seven years of closeness—that was merely so, because even the Boy Who Lived needed companionship to survive and live to fight He-who-must-not-be-named. Once he served his purpose, he would die, leaving all who loved him and cherished him and adored him behind.

After he'd gone, I'd think about it and wonder: Was it worth it, having been friends with him? Were all those escapades and adventures of seven years worth carrying this heavy burden in my heart for the rest of my life?

The answer was always _Yes_.

At present Harry nervously looked about; my speech had gotten gradually louder in my emotions, and he evidently feared the same thing as I, that the authorities would drag me away. 'For heaven's sake, girl, speak lower.' Smiling, he took my hand. 'Don't be mad at me now, Hermione—when I'm dead I assure you that you'll be sorry for being angry with me at all, and I don't want you to be sorry for _anything_.'

My anger dissipated immediately and again the corners of my eyes began to sting. So rare were the moments in which Harry willingly showed his affection and regard for me, and now that he lavished all these sweet words upon me before his demise… I almost wish he hadn't. Certain now that he really did feel an inclination to die (and who having endured such agonies as he had suffered would not?), I inquired in a tearful fashion—

'Will I ever see you again, Harry?'

He nodded vigorously. 'When you die, you will. And when you get to Heaven (because doubtless you will, Mione) you'll see me and my Mum and Dad there. Won't it be great to finally meet my parents?'

It now struck me that the paramount reasons he was so desirous of ceasing to exist were his parents and the prompt expectation of being in their company once more. I had never felt much regard for _my_ parents, and until now was never able to understand, to comprehend fully Harry's want of them.

'So you're sure there's a Heaven?' I questioned him. I myself was brought up with notions of it and with old governesses coercing me into acquiescence by threats of burning regions called hell or pandemonium. However I was not entirely faithful on such destinations as accounted in the Bible; I had my doubts, and needed Harry to reassure me that there was such an existence after death.

Harry answered my inquiry in the affirmative. He pulled me closer and buried his face in my chest, and I held him tighter. I felt that I had never loved Harry so well, never was he dearer to me than at that moment; I could not let him go, and I would not.

'I love you, Mione.'

If I had not heard him speak about his death just moments earlier, I would probably have dropped out of bed in astonishment and amazement. However having caught his eloquent 'famous last words' I did not, and instead replied with an 'I love you too, Harry.'

Following some more moments of reticence he spoke again. 'I feel sleepy, Mione,' said he. 'I feel really tired. But I ask you not to leave me—I like having you here.'

Tearfully and compassionately I assured Harry I would not let him go for the world. The salty tears trickled into my mouth; never had I cried so freely, never had my eyes produced more water than at his demise.

'Are you warm, Hermione?'

'I am.'

A contented sigh. 'Good-night, Hermione.'

'Good-night… and good-bye, Harry.'

I knew that this was the last sentence I would ever say to him, then. Unhesitating he lifted his head and kissed me, but this time on the lips. It was not a romantically laden gesture, but rather an amicable one. I kissed him back, and, my head resting on the cushioned headboard and his on my side, soon we fell to the clutches of unconsciousness and, to my dearest friend, death.

When I awoke it was day; an unusual movement roused me, and I found professor Snape, with an unreadable frown upon his sallow-skinned countenance, floating me up on a stretcher to the girls' dormitories. Immediately I sat up and told him I was fully capable of walking back to the dormitories. Gratified at not having to enter Gryffindor Tower, Snape magicked away the stretcher. Before he could leave however I inquired of Harry. Instead of receiving an answer, though, the Professor, in an extremely bad-humoured, sardonic voice told me to get back to my dormitories as I had assured him I was so capable of performing. By this time, I would soon learn, the whole wizarding world, or at least the whole of the Light Side, was weeping in their hearts; this provided sufficient reason at the want of answers my numerous questions afforded me. A day afterwards I found out that the Headmaster came that morning to check on his dearest pupil, and had found me laid in an infirmary bed, with my arms around Harry Potter's shoulders, my head resting on his. I was asleep, and Harry Potter was—dead.

_He never even got to graduate. _

For years I would wonder—all that time he was sitting in the Infirmary, was he only waiting for me to see him to die? If I had not ever gone to check on him, should he be alive now?

It was a rhetorical question, thus never to be answered.

His grave is in the yard of the only place he had grown to call home; Hogwarts. Now the most famous and beloved wizard in history including Albus Dumbledore, many came to his burial to grieve, not excluding myself. A statue would have graced the spot of his sepulchre, but I, knowing how much Harry would hate for that to be, had begged the Headmaster not to continue with his plans for one. For fifteen years after his death his grave was only covered by a grassy mound, despite Rubeus Hagrid's attempts to keep it clean and proper; but in its early days it was marked with an intricately carved marble tablet with the inscription of his name, a tribute, and the word _Resurgam. _

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Danse Macabre,

**_13 April 2003_**

_First uploaded to as _

C'est la Gouvernante? 

_on_

**_13 June 2001_**


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